


Birth of A Shepherd

by ufopilots



Series: In None We Trust [4]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: (as of timeline), Gen, Nudity, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, pre-INWT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 14:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16307075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ufopilots/pseuds/ufopilots
Summary: Because everything has a beginning.





	Birth of A Shepherd

**Author's Note:**

> Visual elements from Chapter 5 really inspired me to write about how I think Sammy was reborn!
> 
> (This drabble can be read during any point of the series. In fact, this is set before the main fic. You can read it without having read "In None We Trust" at all, or even before you start reading it if you're planning to do so.)

It was growing darker, and darker inside the pipes. Ink blotting from the mouth of the machine, pouring into the abyss below. A mess, product of the very same workers that once walked around it, sometimes giving it a look of doubt, uncertainty or mockery, and other times simply ignoring it. And within, every trapped soul screaming at once.

They called this state "the puddles".

 _drip_  
_drip_

It bled from above, drop after drop onto his head. It welcomed him into his new world. His new life. His new form. And his new purpose.

It was only the drips. And then, muffled screaming. _His own_ screaming.

Every inch of him was trapped in thick, black gunk. He began to struggle, longing to break out of this cocoon of obscurity as his body wriggled in every direction. His arms outstretched, flailing to grab anything that would ensure him that the machine spat him out in the physical world, and not the infinite and horrible well of voices he was swirling in before alongside everyone. It was then when he felt his hands press against something unbreakable. Glass, he felt glass. Not in shards, not cutting him. Only trapping him.

Barely formed, he bathed his body in the ink in breathless agony. Of course, of course it was inevitable. It hurt to breathe, as if oxygen was poisoning his lungs instead of keeping him alive. He couldn't see and- oh god. He felt like he was dying.

Little did he know the case was quite the opposite. No, he couldn't be dying. His death happened before. His death- the decimated shell of his past allowed him to be reborn. Luck was with him, that he was mold into a form that looked remotely human. It was a blessing only every of the hundreds of victims to Joey's plans were entitled to.

He stood like a broken vase that was put back together with glue that was still wet. A pinch of mishandling and he'd fall apart. Imprisoned in this chamber, naked and terrified, only minutes since he escaped the puddles and the womb of the machine.

But even after the glorious escape, the relief of freedom from the cursed black blood that gave him no form and held him fused with all the other souls... Came the next chapter of his slave life.

Only now that he was given a vessel of his own.

The excess ink dripped from his face and fell before his feet like the waste it was. And now, he was a little less blind.

First thing he noticed was the sight of his ink-woven arms pressing against the glass before him. They seemed to both miss a fifth finger. Somehow, they looked human and inhuman at the same time. Like something that shouldn't exist, but did regardless. It took a minute, but once he tried to move a muscle, once his fingers twitched as he discovered that he could control them... Well, he was sure they were his own.

After that confirmation, his arms limply fell to his sides, and he began to notice the rest of his body. It was all the same. Inky black, freshly sculptured from ingredients that sat in the Ink Machine and his own soul. A cold feeling of dread compelled him to stare into the glass until he noticed his faint reflection.

That was him. _That was him._

_..._

And somehow, he felt nothing. Not a single trace of disgust or sorrow. 

The lost soul could not recall what he was before- what there was before. The ink person that stared at him back in the glass, was only him. That was all he knew.

Yet a deep fear began to caress him. He clearly remembered there was _something_ before. Something that he seemed not to understand or able to explain if asked. He only remembered being in the puddles, as a being with no shape that sometimes met an unknown world of black and white before the same puddles pulled him back again.

Now- now he was in this world again. But this time, the puddles were no longer claiming him.

_He dared to wonder if this was freedom._

* * *

Every creation followed the same path. In a world so cold, so unknown, what more could they do but follow one the other, hoping that someone knows the right way? He did that too. Once untethered from his little cell, he followed.

On the long way he met pieces of his past. By nature he tried to bring the little pieces he found together, like they all tried to do to understand this world they were somehow forced to dwell upon. 

In a hellscape where ink and terror had taken over the long gone glory of the once animation studio, this was both a blessing and a curse.

In the beginning he knew nothing, so he followed trails of light. But the trails swarmed up into a light that was too harsh and blinding for him, oh how it made him see things he did not wish to see. So he began to resent it.

Because Sammy realized he was not always this way. He was only a broken reflection of a life he no longer held on to.

He was not free.

...And knowing so tormented him.

* * *

From time to time,an unearthly being shifted in the shadows. He would see it. They all would. Its form, tall and dominant, would shine as it appeared from nothingness. Lurking, preying, and feeding on anything that breathed.

Dreaded, dreaded demon that was here since the beginnings. They feared him so much more than the cruel projectionist who ripped hearts apart. 

Sammy too, was afraid. And yet, the first to notice...

_Bendy._

His name, his image. On the posters. On the walls. On the desks. On the old songs. And his cutouts spread throughout the studio were more than you can count.

The ink demon nobody knew and everyone feared was Bendy.

What more can a man who lost everything to the ink that consumed him have faith in? He began to believe and obsess over this notion:  
_That Bendy was a god that lived among them._

He spoke his thoughts, and they listened. By their own will they followed. They believed he was a prophet. 

And their belief fueled his own.

That was it. He knew and he fully accepted his new purpose.

Down, down beneath Joey Drew Studios, a cult grew within the rotting halls.

Candles. Pentagrams. Hymns. Prayers. Offerings. Sacrifices. The demon of ink was worshiped like a savior, so that one day he may set them free.

And Sammy was the shepherd who guided all the sheep. 

Such is the story of a blind man who thought he was enlightened.

**Author's Note:**

> Been absent from AO3 lately. Guys, I'll be honest. I love BATIM, I really do. Perhaps I've never been as invested into a fandom as I've been with BATIM. I still am. But at the same time, I'm moving on to other things right now.
> 
> However, even if I end up losing interest I'm gonna try my best to keep writing within the INWT universe, even if sparsely. Sammy and Norman are characters I love so so much, and I still have stories to tell about them within this little AU I've made. I cannot promise anything as of now, but keep in mind that I'm certainly not done with INWT. Working on this AU has been really fun for me, and even if my audience is small as of now I still want to show you whatever I've been planning. With that being said, I hope I can keep writing. Thank you for sticking around.


End file.
